


a rush at the beginning

by gealbhan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Relationship, probably gd route but it's never mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 04:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: “Oh, dear. You should just leave me here, I’m afraid—I’ll find my way up eventually.”“What? Of course I’m not going to do that,” says Catherine, and the fervor in her voice may have been admirable had Manuela’s head not been aching. “Here, let me help you back to the infirmary.”Before Manuela can so much as make a sound of protest, she finds herself scooped, with very little effort, into a pair of very powerful arms like a sack of potatoes.Hrk,she thinks, eloquent.
Relationships: Manuela Casagranda/Catherine
Comments: 6
Kudos: 70





	a rush at the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> barely edited but i couldn't stop thinking about this pairing and had to feverishly get this out. title from "the louvre" by lorde. enjoy!

“Manuela?” comes a voice from somewhere above her, familiar in the same kind of way distant memories, warped by time, are.

Manuela, at the moment, is having trouble even opening her eyes, let alone recognizing the voice or placing its exact location. She feels like she’s hearing through water-clogged ears. The throbbing sensation behind her temples does nothing to ease her troubles. Neither does the nausea building in her stomach, making it flip and flop in an unpleasant way, nor the disgusting taste in her rather dry mouth.

When she does manage to speak, it’s barely above a whisper. “Ugh, shit, my head…”

“Manuela,” says that voice again, and now she realizes who it is with startling clarity—Catherine. “Are you all right? Can you stand?”

With much struggle, Manuela brings herself, first, to open her eyes. And then open them again when the light proves to be too much the first go around.

Oh. Fuck. She’s sitting in the middle of the ground near the fishing pond and garden—though _lying_ would be more accurate, seeing she seems to have passed out here, face-first. Her legs are sprawled, awkward, beneath her, though thankfully not enough so that her dress has hitched up. Even so, she smooths it down as she pulls herself to a somewhat respectable position.

Catherine is standing above her, concern written across her face. “Manuela? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” says Manuela, voice hoarse. She clears her throat with little impact, then goes on in a faint voice, “How—” another wave of pain rolls over her “—_ugh—_how long have I been here? Better yet, what time—” she yawns “—is it? Because it’s so fucking bright. Everything hurts.”

“It’s not that bright,” says Catherine, even more worried.

“Ooh. And your voice is far too loud. Don’t yell, please.”

“Sorry?” Catherine lowers it, just a bit, but it’s enough that Manuela is satisfied. “It’s morning—fairly early. I just got back from my usual early-morning training, so I’m not sure how long you’ve been here.”

Manuela sighs. “A while, I’m sure,” she says, begrudging. She attempts to drag herself to her feet to little avail, finding her legs wobbly and weak. “Oh, dear. You should just leave me here, I’m afraid—I’ll find my way up eventually.”

“What? Of course I’m not going to do that,” says Catherine, and the fervor in her voice may have been admirable had Manuela’s head not been aching. “Here, let me help you back to the infirmary.”

Before Manuela can so much as make a sound of protest, she finds herself scooped, with very little effort, into a pair of very powerful arms like a sack of potatoes. _Hrk,_ she thinks, eloquent, as she wraps her arms around Catherine’s neck to steady herself. She’s being held in something like a bridal carry; one of Catherine’s arms is supporting her legs, the other her back. It’s… nice.

“Mmph,” mumbles Manuela, no more eloquent than her rather discombobulated thoughts. Were she in any other state than ‘so hungover she still feels distantly intoxicated,’ she might have almost been embarrassed—she’s used to having at least a little more game than this. “You’re really warm.”

Catherine laughs, a low rumble that buzzes all throughout Manuela. “Let’s hope it stays that way.” At Manuela’s questioning hum, she adds, “It always seems to rain when I need it not to. Lysithea and I had this theory a while back about it having to do with our Crests of Charon.”

“You should tell Hanneman. I’m sure he’d get a kick out of it.” Manuela can’t help a derisive snort. The rest of her, though, is begging to know why she’s brought up Hanneman instead of just letting herself be carried in silence by a good-looking knight.

Huh. Good-looking? She supposes that’s an objective fact—Catherine is a very handsome woman, with those tousled golden locks and, of course, the far from insignificant amount of muscle mass on her body. And Manuela has never been opposed to pursuing women; most of her most sustainable relationships have been with women. Nowadays, though, it’s hard to find anything satisfactory regardless of the gender of her partner.

“Ha!” comes Catherine’s voice, jerking her out of her thoughts. “Maybe I’ll follow you up on that. Though I’m not so convinced in that theory, anymore. Maybe it’s just bad luck.”

“I know about that,” says Manuela wryly, and _how_. “Why, just last night, I—oh, I’d best not talk about it. It’ll just make me upset again.”

“I don’t mind listening,” offers Catherine. She hefts Manuela slightly as they turn a corner—or at least, Manuela assumes they do, because now her attention is focused in on Catherine—and Manuela’s heart skips a couple of beats. There’s not even a hint of strain on Catherine’s face. “I’m not that great giving advice that isn’t combat-related, but if you need a shoulder to cry on…”

“Why, thank you. I may take you up on that—but not now.” Manuela shakes her head, closing her eyes with all the gravity she can muster. She hopes she doesn’t fall asleep again, as tempting as the thought is. “As I said, I’ll just get upset again. And besides, I’m not feeling very up to talking.”

Catherine shrugs. “Suit yourself. The offer stands, though.”

“I truly appreciate it,” says Manuela, smiling. She leans further into Catherine, as much as she thinks she can get away with, and sighs. “In the meantime, why don’t you talk? Tell me a story. I rather like your voice, you know.” She’s hoping she says that quietly enough that Catherine doesn’t hear.

“A story?” asks Catherine, slight amusement in her voice, and Manuela breathes a silent sigh of relief. “What about?”

“Anything. How about—hm—one of your knightly excursions with Shamir?”

“Really?” Unlike before, Manuela can’t quite get a read off of the tone in Catherine’s voice, and she’s just so comfortable with her eyes closed.

“I’d like something exciting, I think. It’ll keep me awake. And besides,” continues Manuela in a dreamy drawl, “tales of knights and chivalry have always intrigued me.” What girl (or, she supposes, grown woman) doesn’t dream of being some sort of figure in a knight/lady dynamic, after all?

“Well, Shamir isn’t really one for the chivalry part of it.” Catherine laughs, another short but deep and pleasant sound. “But… ah, hell, why not? I’ll tell you about one of our first missions. So Shamir and I had just met, and we weren’t getting along so well, but—”

Though she isn’t what Manuela would call the most eloquent storyteller (not that she has any particular claim to that title either—or at least not since she gave up being a songstress), the tale she weaves is captivating indeed. She and Shamir, she tells Manuela, had been newly partnered and still on rocky terms when they came up against some of the toughest foes either had ever faced. Common bandits, but powerful magic users and well-trained fighters. There had even been a couple of pegasus knights among their ranks. Catherine and Shamir first tried to evade the bandits, having sent a squire to scout ahead, but the bandits had ambushed them. And—low on supplies, cornered, and outnumbered—Catherine and Shamir had no choice but to fight back—

Catherine is just getting to this part of the story when she interrupts herself with an, “Oh! We’re at the infirmary.”

Manuela is somewhat startled at how long it had taken (or rather, how long it hadn’t taken). She shouldn’t be; the grounds of the Garreg Mach Monastery aren’t that big. Hell, she’s seen the professor leave from the cathedral, go to the marketplace, and be back in less than five minutes, not so much as short of breath—the professor is a rather special case, but still. The biggest hindrance nowadays is all the rubble, but with the professor leading cleanup efforts, even that’s starting to ebb.

All right, so maybe she’s not _surprised_, just disappointed. Time really does fly, she supposes.

“You didn’t finish your story,” complains Manuela.

Catherine pauses in her attempts to open the door without dropping or otherwise injuring Manuela. “You really liked it?”

“Yes,” responds Manuela without taking a moment to think about it. “The drama, the suspense, the action—or, rather, promise thereof… your life would make for brilliant subject matter for an opera, I think. Perhaps we could discuss that further in the future.” _When there’s not a war going on_ goes unspoken.

“Well, maybe I’ll have to tell you the rest someday. Maybe over drinks.” Manuela’s expression must immediately morph into disgust at the thought of having a drink anytime soon (despite the simultaneous craving deep within her), because Catherine hurries to add, “I meant tea. You like tea, yeah?”

“I do. Do you?”

“I mean, it’s not my favorite of all the beverages out there, but yeah, I like it fine.”

Manuela’s smile, hesitant for once, stretches into a wider grin. “Then we’ll absolutely have to have tea together, yes. I’ll hopefully be in more of a sharing mood so it isn’t just you carrying the conversation. And, well, carrying _me_.”

Catherine laughs. “I don’t mind, you know,” she says, hefting for emphasis. Manuela’s arms tighten around her neck. “But I’d love to swap war stories.” She pauses, presumably grimacing. “Ah—so to speak.”

“…Indeed.” An awkward air passes over them, and Manuela hears a fumbling sound from across the hall—Hanneman waking in his office, no doubt. Oh, boy. Manuela really doesn’t want to deal with him now of all times. “If you wouldn’t mind opening the door, dear—”

“Oh! Of course.”

Adjusting her grip on Manuela, Catherine twists the door open. It’s unlocked—Manuela has her own sleeping quarters and doesn’t see why she should deprive anyone of medical supplies. Magic healing can only do so much, after all. Still, she gets the feeling Catherine is somewhat surprised.

“And close it after you,” adds Manuela as Catherine steps inside, shifting Manuela again to be cradled against her chest. A creaking noise sounds, and then a click. “Thank you. I’m sure I’m to be on the receiving end of a lecture later,” she mutters, dry.

“What was that?” Catherine’s voice is surprisingly—yet achingly—gentle.

“Oh—nothing, dear, don’t worry about it.” Both times, the pet name has slipped out against her wishes. Though she wants, despite the brightness against her eyelids, to open her eyes to witness what Catherine’s expression does at being called _dear_, she supposes she’ll have to experiment with it later. The prospect is nothing short of thrilling.

Catherine sets Manuela down on one of the beds—thankfully vacated—in the infirmary—empty, also thankfully. Thank the Goddess she hadn’t been treating any wounded soldiers. (Not just because Manuela needs to sit here, of course. She’d like to reduce casualties as much as possible, no matter how difficult it is—as indifferent as she tries to stay, it has gotten to her. She doesn’t see how it _couldn’t_.)

Finally, Manuela brings herself to open her eyes again, facing away from the window. Catherine steps around her to draw the blinds shut anyway. The room goes pleasantly dark as the shutters close.

“Oh!” says Manuela. “Thank you, Catherine.”

“Sure thing. You said it was bright earlier, so I figured you’d appreciate a little darkness.” Catherine looks both ways, as though they’re not alone in this room (which might as well be true, with nosy, elephant-ears Hanneman across the hall), and then adds in an undertone, “Besides, I’ve had my own experiences with hangovers. You need anything, just let me know.”

“Thank you,” Manuela says again, unable to hide how tickled she is. “I don’t need anything now—just some—” she yawns again “—sleep, I believe. But… I do appreciate the offer. And your—ah—help.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to just leave you there to fend for yourself,” says Catherine, affronted. “What were you saying earlier about chivalry?”

“You also said Shamir doesn’t exactly abide by it.”

“True,” admits Catherine, “but I’m not Shamir.”

Manuela laughs. “Oh, trust me, I’m aware—I wonder if she could have carried me all the way up here,” she adds, finger pressed to her chin in consideration. A thought for another day. She clears her throat. “Still, chivalrous or not, you did it. And that’s more than I can say for most knights I’ve gone out with.”

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Manuela.” Catherine leans in close, and for a brief moment Manuela’s blood pressure spikes. “Most knights you’ve gone out with were probably insubordinate assholes.”

That startles another laugh out of Manuela, though half-tinged with nervousness due to Catherine’s physical proximity to her. “Yes, you’re right—or at least about the asshole part. Goddess, at this point I’m ready to be done with men forever.”

Catherine’s eyebrows raise. “Really?”

“Who can really say. Maybe I’ll start dating more women.” Manuela winks, though she’s sure it’s sluggish and therefore rather unappealing. “I mean—that’s not to say I’m not already interested in women,” she adds, realizing how that could be interpreted. “I always have been, but… I suppose I’ve been too fixated on men the past few years.”

“Well, good luck with whatever you decide.” With a certain gleam of understanding in her eyes, Catherine leans back. “If you don’t need anything, then I’ll leave you to it now. I hope you feel better, Manuela,” she says with a gentle smile. “Try to get some rest, all right? You’ll be no help to us out on the front lines if you’re passing out like that.”

Manuela can do little else but nod. Catherine takes her hand in her own, as warm to the touch as the rest of her body had been. And she squeezes once. Manuela isn’t used to being cut to the quick by displays of affection like this—she’s more used to affecting others with little teasing touches here and there. She has to say, she’s coming around to the prospect of being on the receiving end.

“I’ll talk to you later, then,” says Catherine, heading out. Manuela’s hand falls, limp, to her knee, but she manages to wave feebly with the other when Catherine opens and shuts the door behind her.

Left alone, Manuela can return to her earlier thoughts. Catherine is good-looking and strong, of course—but those are only surface traits. Below her appearance, Catherine is rather mentally strong, as well; she’s loyal beyond belief (even if it isn’t to Manuela), kind and earnest and caring, and a good listener and storyteller alike to boot. But would those make her a good partner?

Manuela finds the answer to be an unequivocal _yes_. If she would be a good partner to Manuela in specific has yet to be answered, but in general, Manuela is sure she would be quite the gentlewoman. Catherine is the kind of person, Manuela suspects, who would offer her coat to a date who so much as shivered once. That’s something she has to respect.

Even at the thought of her and Catherine together, Manuela’s pulse jumps. Butterflies flood her stomach—and not just from the nausea. As sudden as this all had been, it is rather interesting; she’ll have to return to these thoughts when she’s feeling better.

This is, Manuela realizes, the first time in years she’s felt this way over a new prospective partner. Of course she feels passing attraction often, but this—this feels more solid, more reliable. Like it could develop into something strong and true. And of course there’s a possibility it could all go up in smoke like the majority of Manuela’s past relationships, but the look in Catherine’s eyes when she’d told Manuela to rest up, the way she’d laid her hand over Manuela’s—

“Oh my,” says Manuela, holding a hand to her mouth to cover her smile. “How exciting.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! if you have time to spare, comments & kudos are very much appreciated <3
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


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